Let Love In
by jasminedragons
Summary: Inspired by the song by the Goo Goo Dolls. Grissom said it started 9 years ago. Sara said it was 2. But when did they really decide to let love in? Slight spoilers for 8X02.
1. She says

"You and supervisor Grissom were in direct violation of lab policy, which clearly states that no two people of the same forensics team may share a romantic relationship--"

Are.

He looks up, one eyebrow raised.

"_Are_," he corrects himself. "In direct violation of lab policy."

Her nose wrinkles in amusement as Ecklie tries to regain his composure, hiding flustered face behind the fluttering sheets of professional papers.

"So. Uh. Yes. When did you two… start your relationship?"

We've always had a relationship. She uses her one unbroken arm to brush a stray lock of hair out of her face.

She gets the impression that he's trying not to roll his eyes. That image alone makes her smirk a little.

"I meant," Ecklie states through gritted teeth. "When did you two start getting… intimate?"

She blinks, as if it's a word of a foreign land.

Narrowing her eyes in concentration, she tilts her head and thinks about it for a second.

Not counting the time where she brushed his cheek from chalk?

Not counting the time when he had held onto her cut hand, his hold lingering a second or two too long?

_Counting _the time when she had invited him in for coffee on one of those rare rainy days, only to wake up three hours later to find herself tangled up in sheets, sweat, and _him_?

"Two years ago.

I think it was a Sunday."


	2. He says

"You've been avoiding me, Gil. What could've been a conversation between two friends has -- has escalated into _this. _Catherine could've easily done Sara's evaluations…"

Sighing inwardly, he purses his lips and waits for his blabbering superior to get to the inevitable.

Sighing loudly, Ecklie flips open the brown, professional-looking Crime-Lab Clipboard.

Pen poised, he mumbles, almost humbly, "So when did you and Sara become… You know…"

His grey eyebrows descend, not bothering to raise either of his already busy hands (filling out paperwork for his team's latest case) to rub the ache in his temple.

"_You know_"? What did _that _refer to?

When they had met? No, he already knew.

When they had started their relationship? It was hard to say, really; it had taken a long time to establish, brick by brick, day by day, but it was there.

When he had felt that leap in his heart? The lurch of his stomach? The blush creeping across his cheeks?

Yes, that was probably the reference of "you know".

Speaking with utmost confidence, he replied, "Nine years ago."

So it really did surprise him when a frustrated Ecklie told him that they needed to get their stories straight before storming out of his cramped office, leaving a clump of pulled-out hair on the floor.


	3. Thursday

THURSDAY  
**San Francisco, 1998**  
**Thursday, 8 a.m.**  
**The Forensic Academy Conference**  
**Lecture Theatre 12**

He was late.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Her hair was tied up neatly into a ponytail with wisps of hair escaping, framing her heart-shaped face.

A notebook and pencil sat on the flimsy plastic table attached to her chair.

She had already prepared some questions to ask him about this lecture.

She was ready.

But he was late.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

She glared at the blonde with the abnormally loud wristwatch sitting next to her.

The blonde stared back with vapid eyes, reminding Sara of the class bimbo back in high school.

The rhythmic beat was getting on her nerves.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

As she was opening her mouth to scream (?) at the girl, the door to the theatre opened quietly.

A man of about forty stepped into the room; a briefcase was hanging off one hand, and a stack of papers was gripped in the other.

A lily was sewn onto the cuff of his polo's sleeve, probably as a decoration.

She liked lilies.

The man placed his belongings onto the table in the front of the room and moved to the front of the desk, patiently waiting for the chatter of the twenty-something forensic scientists gathered there to die down.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Eventually, everyone noticed him and settled down.

"Thank you."

_Tick. _

His voice was deep and crisp, almost cool; those two words made every nerve in her body tingle.

_Tock._

"My name is Gil Grissom, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm here today to teach you about anthropo—"

_Tick._

His eyes just happened to meet hers. She breathed in sharply, trying to control the sudden pounding in her chest that was caused by those startlingly blue eyes of the lecturer.

"—logy."

_Tock. _

He turned away from her as suddenly as their eyes had met, continuing his introduction without missing a beat.

She blinked and shook herself mentally; what had just happened?

Pulling out a laptop from his briefcase, he flipped it open and connected it to the overhead projector, starting the class with a slideshow of cases he had worked on, involving the subject he was lecturing.

She thought his eyes often strayed to her throughout the lecture (was it wishful thinking?) and she could not help but admire the way he taught: informatively, warmly, passionately.

_Tick._

Her gaze never stopped following the movement of his hands as he gestured and changed slides.

_Tock._

A blush crept across her cheeks when he bestowed a small smile upon her for answering a posed question correctly.

_Tick._

And she was hanging on to his every word.

_Tock._

"Dr. Grissom?"

Her voice was small, meek, timid.

He looked up at her, in the midst of stuffing his laptop back into its briefcase.

_Tick._

"Yes?"

She marveled at how his quiet voice could still carry across the room.

"I…"

_I wanted to know if we could go out for dinner._

"… Didn't understand this concept you were talking about."

She jabbed at a sentence on the handout he had given them without even looking at it.

Smiling slightly, he moved around the table to get a better look.

Her breath caught as he leant over, explaining the finer points. Occasionally, he would look down at her and she'd look back up, eyes sweeping over that little pursed up mouth, the adorable button nose and his eyes.

Oh, those eyes: crystal clear swimming pools whose depths remained unknown, filling her up with warmth she never experienced, yet suffocating her, drowning her.

All at the same time.

_Tock._


	4. Friday

I AM SOOOOO SORRY FOR THE LATENESS OF THIS CHAPTER! School just got in the way, and so did icon making… But here it is. Friday.

* * *

She got the call during breakfast.

A mug of coffee (black, strong and bitter) and a plate of French toast on her round mahogany table.

The newspaper was spread out in front of them, turned to the comics section.

In her line of work, a little laughter was essential at the start of the day.

Sherman had just stuck his fin up his nose when her house phone rang.

Annoyed, she glanced over the rim of her mug at it.

She was about to turn away again (a morning person, she was not) when she glimpsed the name on her Caller I.D.

Gilbert Grissom.

The man, she instantly remembered, whom she had become smitten, almost obsessed with, two years ago, at the Forensics Conference she had attended.

They had gone out to dinner after all, at a small Italian restaurant Sara had always wanted to dine in but never had the guts to, due to the overwhelming number of couples who ate there everyday.

A glass of wine or two, more for him; they had shared a pizza (half mushroom, half pepperoni, she remembered) and had stayed there till midnight chatting about random topics, like what kind of coffee they liked.

"Black. No sugar."

"Strong and bitter?"

"Yeah. You too?"

"Mmmm."

For Grissom, 'mmmm' could mean a lot of things.

But accompanied by that boyish smile which spread all the way to those swimming pool-eyes, she knew he approved of her choice.

And that made her look down at her swirling red wine, hoping against hope that her hair would cover her flaming cheeks.

He had driven her home in a rented Mercedes, the two talking animatedly about their jobs. She discovered that he was as big a workaholic as her (possibly bigger) and couldn't help but smile at how much they had in common.

Well, not that much.

But enough.

When he had walked her up the three flights of stairs leading to her apartment, she had done something very un-Sara like by grabbing his hand and writing her phone number on his palm.

He had responded by taking her slim fingers into his hand and doing exactly the same thing to her.

They stood there for a while, each staring at their own palms, pretending to memorize the scrawled digits, puffs coming out of their mouths.

"Well. Uh, have a safe trip home."

She had tried to be cheerful about it. They were going to see each other. Or at least talk over the phone.

Who was she kidding? She was probably never going to see him again.

Looking up, he had laid one finger—just one finger—on her cheek.

Feeling his warm skin against her cool cheek, Sara was rendered speechless.

Then in a whirl of a black coat, Grissom had trotted down the stairs without a word.

And left her standing at the door to her apartment wondering what in the world had happened.

"Sidle."

"Sara?"

It wasn't a mirage, a hallucination.

It _was _him.

"Uh, yes, this is she."

"It's Grissom. Gilbert Grissom. Remember, from the Forensics Conference two years ago?"

How could she forget?

"Yeah, uh, hi. What's up?"

"I need you. To, uh. Come to Vegas. A girl on my team got shot, and I need someone—you—to come down and investigate. And, uh, if you like, you could, uh, join my team. You know. Permanently. Although it's nightshift, so-"

If Gilbert Grissom had asked her to skydive without a parachute, Sara suspected she would have.

"Yeah. Yeah. Uh, I'll come. When do you want me? In, I mean. When do you want me in?"

She was already reaching for her purse.

"Oh, thank you, Sara, today would be good. We're really shorthanded right now, we could use the extra help."

Damn, where had she stored her suitcase? "I'll catch the first flight over."

"Put the ticket and all your other expenses on Vegas' Crime Lab's tab. Call me from the airport when you've figured out what time you're landing."

She smiled into the phone. "I will."

"I'll pick you up," his voice continued. "See you."

"See you," she almost whispered.

When she arrived in Vegas, she saw a man in a black coat.

She smiled up at Gilbert Grissom.

He stretched out a hand clutching a tall Starbucks disposable cup, depositing it in her hands, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Black. No sugar. Strong and bitter."


End file.
